


The Dark Side in Shades of Red

by Celeste06



Category: Star Wars; The Force Unleashed
Genre: Abuse??, Darth Vader - Freeform, Darth Vader/Galen Marek, Galen Marek - Freeform, M/M, Master/Apprentice, Masturbation, Starkiller - Freeform, unhealthy relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-16
Updated: 2019-02-16
Packaged: 2019-10-29 16:30:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17811476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Celeste06/pseuds/Celeste06
Summary: I’ve been a fan of The Force Unleashed for a good long while. It’s about time I made a fic commemorating my most favorite and simultaneously worst ship.





	The Dark Side in Shades of Red

Starkiller’s hand roams tentatively over his hip. Fingers digging into the seams where muscle tenses under flesh. He has buried himself under his cots’ thin covers, trapping heat to spite the rooms’ chill. His breath puffs in short bursts as recycled oxygen becomes less and less plentiful. There isn’t enough air, and though his brain cringes at its strange familiarity, his body pleads for more. Sinking under the band of his underwear the dark apprentice scrapes his nails over sensitive skin, causing his erection to throb at the slight sting. It isn’t enough.  
He feels dirty.  
This is something Vader has never bothered to mentioned, this yearning is in his blood and body, heat rising further as his pale chest heaves, as the scent of sweat that drips over his lips permeates the stifled air. Agh. Don’t think of him. With his cold demeanor and abrasive breath. His flowing cape, the dull thump of his boots against durasteel, his metallic, smooth, deep voice. Starkiller gasps under his ratty quilt, eyes glazed, fixated on the authority figure he so fears and hates. He throws his head back against the mattress and finally, finally wraps his hand around his cock, whining at the hot, calloused, pressure. He grips the edge of the mattress with his free hand, bracing and shuddering, a seam of the cool outside leaking in as he strokes clumsily. There is almost no air. Frantic pleasure floods through him as his lungs strain and hips stutter. He’s seeing stars and is now soaked with exertion. Pumping violently, imaging the rougher touch of a more practiced hand, he moans and mewls, completely abandoning his self-control. Whatever he had to begin with.  
Starkiller’s eyes roll back as searing, wet ecstasy surges through his veins. The dry, rapid, thump of his heart in his ears drowns out any other sound. He thinks of nothing but release. For once, no other mortal worry clouds his troubled mind. He’s so close. Arching off of the mattress, he thrusts into his hand, wrist aching, mouth hanging open, the heat almost unbearable. There, there, Starkiller punctuates each shallow breath with a jerk of his hips, violent pulses of pleasure throb in time with the flex of his aching thighs. His stomach tightens, his spine quivers, and…and…someone’s here. Time stills, stops. The air under his makeshift tent stagnates further but he stays stock still, remaining frozen mid-pump with his lips squeezed tightly together. Raw terror floods through him, but he manages a rather breathy “Proxy?”  
Then he hears it. An unmistakable, deliberately slow inhale, and the mechanical hiss as air is pushed out.  
Starkiller’s eyes widen.  
Oh. Shit.  
He doesn’t move, still arched off the bed with his right hand stuffed into his boxers, horrified that doing so would somehow alert Vader to what he had been doing. What he had been so close to…achieving.  
With rising terror Starkiller hears aforementioned heavy boot steps thud over the threshold of his doorway into the room.  
The Dark Lord says nothing; both his thoughts and presence are heavily guarded for reasons Starkiller can’t currently fathom. He feels like he’s short-circuited. He can’t think of anything to say or do so he just sits, stiff and immobile under papery sheets.  
The apprentice has just enough brainpower to rip his hand from his crotch before there’s a velvety swish and a flood of cool air washes over his him. Starkiller’s skin prickles from a combination of the cold and fear as he stares, wide-eyed, up at his characteristically expressionless Master.  
“I-I was just…uh.” The young Sith stutters, mind drawing an obvious blank.  
Vader knows exactly what Starkiller has been doing. Did the boy think him stupid? As if it wasn’t abundantly obvious given the rather lascivious swell he’d felt in the force, Starkiller’s appearance was another indicator.  
He’s soaked with sweat in the dim light, and his skin is violently red. The boy is panting and shivering as if he’d just run a marathon. Vader can’t help but find the current situation very…amusing.  
Starkiller’s fear and confusion increase exponentially as Vader’s breathing is punctuated with an odd hissing noise. His presence is still guarded and he can’t at all tell what Vader is thinking. Wait…is Vader…laughing? The apprentice’s embarrassment skyrockets and he feels another deep flush come over him. But…if Vader thinks this is funny, then maybe he won’t be punished. A tiny, shy grin creeps up Starkiller’s face as he tries to appeal to his Master’s better nature.  
Then the room goes colder still. Dark amusement radiates from Vader, and Starkiller realizes, with a sinking feeling, that his Master doesn’t find humor in this situation. “You are truly pathetic boy.” he says, sheet still clenched in his fist. He leans down, and grabs Starkiller’s wrist, twisting it roughly so that the palm faces upwards. It was the one he’d been...yeah. Force forsake him. Starkiller’s upturned hand trembles in the dim light.  
Mortified, the apprentice’s eyes water and his throat constricts.   
Vader’s grip tightens painfully.   
Then, out of nowhere, Vader projects a slew of filthy imagery, sensation, sound, at him. Starkiller’s face turns impossibly more red. The poor, overloaded boy shuffles tries to tear himself away from his Master’s grip.   
Vader yanks him forward, drops the sheet and crushes him close, all in one swift motion. Using his free arm to wrap around his waist, Vader digs his fingers into his apprentice’s thigh. Starkiller hisses as his body thumps against Vader’s solid chest.  
“Foolish as ever.” The Dark Lord murmurs in a tone that shoots anticipation up his spine. The apprentice buries his face in the hard armor of his master’s shoulder and openly projects his desperate need.   
Do something—anything. Please.   
In this moment, Vader could run him through with his lightsaber and Starkiller would have thanked him in his dying breaths. Vader shoves Starkiller back almost angrily, throwing him down into the mattress. The boy’s breath leaves him in a rush and he bares his neck ,a juvenile attempt at seduction. Let it come then. Whatever may.

**Author's Note:**

> Dead Dove Do Not Eat;   
> (It’s Darth Vader, so that’s a given)


End file.
